


alone, myself, i stand

by TheGuardianAngel



Category: The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Suicidal Thoughts, a lot of hurt and not a large amount of comfort but there is some
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 22:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11815458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGuardianAngel/pseuds/TheGuardianAngel
Summary: Carver takes things even further when he shows up at the cabin. Clementine faces him alone.NOTE: This was recently rewritten, and I have decided to expand on this story, and will be adding an additional two chapters... eventually.





	alone, myself, i stand

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for the rape, and physical and sexual assault of a child. Also for blood and knives. This was very similar to what I predicted was going to happen when Carver turned up at the cabin, though I am grateful it *didn't*. The title is from the song "Running" by Delta Spirit. 
> 
> Because of the nature of this one-shot, I've decided to provide a few extra things for any readers, just in case. See below: 
> 
> Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN): www.rainn.org  
> National Sexual Assault Hotline (US): 1-800-656-4673

What sets him off is the Polaroid photograph of Sarah that he finds lying discarded on the floor.

The blood in Clementine’s veins freezes when she watches his eyes focus on the photograph, and for a moment - there’s just a _brief_ moment - it seems that she can’t bring any air into her lungs.

The beginnings of a grin come to the man’s face; it’s one that shakes Clementine to her core.

He bends down _so close_ to the floor and _so close_ to the bed - _so close_ to Sarah’s hiding place that he must be able to hear her breathing. He _must have_. When the man examines the photograph, he stands and looks from it to Clementine with his gaze moving slow enough that she can almost see the cogs spinning in his head.

And they do.

“Who is this?”

His voice is silky, and full of suggestion when he speaks, something that he previously tried to hide. But Clementine knows now that she was dead wrong about what she previously perceived was an…  _innocent_ intention.

Clementine doesn’t speak for several seconds. Multiple separate things come to her mind - excuses, ways to get out of this, methods of maybe subtly manipulating this man into… what, letting her go? Everything in the back of her head tells her to _run_ and to not allow the sweat forming in her clenched palms to be visible for this home-invader to see.

“I don’t -” She hesitates, gripping her left wrist tightly as her voice suddenly cuts off in the middle of her sentence. “I don’t know.” Clementine glances to her shoes and the floor. Again, her eyes flick to the photograph clenched between the man’s dirt-coated fingers. “Maybe she was someone who used to live here.”

His nod is slow, and his grip on the photograph tightens. The smirk on his lips slowly slides from his face is replaced by the narrowing of his eyes; he glares in his heinous attempt to stare into Clementine’s eyes.

“Must be,” he grunts, then lowers the photograph to his side. It’s then that the unnerving smirk returns, playing on his lips dangerously. “You have no idea who these people are, do you?”

Again, the man’s smirk once again melts into a scowl - well, more than a scowl, more than a glare. It’s an expression that makes Clementine wish that she had to the ability or the _time_ to simply run out of the room instead of being paralyzed, switching her gaze from the man to the floor over and over. But her legs don’t cooperate, so she stands there, frozen, unable to force her voice to work.

“Where are they?”

Clementine says nothing at first, and instead finds herself backing away just slightly. Shaking her head slowly, she murmurs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words run together as they race through her head, repeating over and over rhythmically.

She has to keep telling him this - she has to _lie_ and participate in her self-preservation and keep him from whatever it is that he has in mind -

Her mind instantly shoots back to just the day before when that scavenger chased her through the dense forest - the same event that set off a chain reaction of events that continuously spired out of control.

She has an idea of what this man has in mind.

And this man, whom she’s now almost certain is the aforementioned Carver, knows who and what he’s looking for. Just not where. But while watching him through the house in his interrogation of every little displaced object, watching him play stupid when she asks him what he’s looking for - dear God, Clementine almost _believed_ him. Almost.

And that is something that terrifies her.

“ _Where?_ ” the man - _Carver_ \- asks again, allowing the photograph to fall from his dirty grip so that it flutters to the floor, like a leaf that falls to the ground. “ _Where_ are they?” His voice deepens, now gruffer this time; it takes on a tone that immediately betrays the calm, concerned facade that he previously put on.

There’s a short-lived moment when Clementine stares him straight in his eyes in her futile attempt to look intimidating. His pupils are pinpoint dots against brown, his eyebrows ruffled in a way that makes him appear much more similar to a wolf than a human.

There’s silence between them for only a few seconds before Carver speaks again.

“Lemme ask you this…” He sighs, then stares at Clementine again. “When you met ‘em, how much did they trust you?”

They didn’t trust her at all.

Carver nears her, coming even closer to her than Clementine is comfortable being with anyone - so close that she can hear his gruff breathing… so close that she can feel her heart pounding even faster as she struggles to look up to meet him in the face.

“... I don’t… know…”

Her words dry up the second that Carver’s hands fly up to her shirt collar, his fingers latching around the bloodied fabric as he grumbles to her, “ _Wrong_ answer.”

Clementine yelps as he pulls her closer, very suddenly and violently; he works one hand to the area between her chin and her jawbones and the other to her wrist. He tightens his grip, bone on bone, and forces her to glance up at him.

She doesn’t scream - she _can’t_ scream - but rather lets out a barely audible gasp as her heart drops to her stomach. Carver’s grip on her boney chin tightens even more, to the point where Clementine suddenly fears for the fate of her jaw bone -

Her wide, reddened eyes bore into his squinted eyes as he growls, “You’ve got a _thick, fuckin’ skull, girl_.”

And just like that, Clementine shouts as he finds him gripping her by the waist and dragging her out of the room and down the solid wooden stairs as if she’s nothing but a rag doll to a careless child. Her limbs shake and tremble as she kicks and squirms in Carver’s grasp as he yanks her from the bottom stair.

Within her view of the fast approaching sitting room is the kitchen door. There’s a moment when she remembers the knife that he brandished before.

She could get that knife.

She could _defend_ herself.

She could -

The cocking of Carver’s gun is audible. The cool, smooth metal of the tiny barrel brushes against the reddened skin around her throat as she feels Carver’s grip around her waist tighten. He forces her forward, nodding towards the kitchen door.

Panic seizes Clementine again as she thinks of the knife again, this time in a different light.

“I’ll ask you again.” he says calmly, “Where are they? Luke - where the _fuck_ is he?”

“I – don’t – _know –_ ” Clementine gasps back, her voice trembling as Carver presses his colt python into her jugular again. The pressure increases as he jams it harder into her throat, but she isn’t even sure what she’s supposed to tell him. What he wants to know. Where had Luke gone? What’s she supposed to tell him - yes, he’s out somewhere in the North Carolina wilderness, somewhere around her, looking for Nick?

The physical pressure, if it’s even possible at this point, increases as Carver steers Clementine towards the kitchen. By this point, it’s difficult to feel her hands and her knees because of the dread - oh God, the dread. Nothing but dread.

Her mind flashes back to Carver’s threatening brandishing of that knife earlier - that horrible, _disgusting_ kitchen knife - and how she thought he was going to _stab_ her or even _kill_ her.

Her lip trembles and she holds back tears as he forces her through the swinging door and towards the outside of the counters. Clementine’s eyes meet with the rusty sink and all of its dirty dishes; the stove that smells like burned meat; all of the drawers filled with pointy and dangerous tools and silverware.

Carver pulls her towards the front of the stove that doesn’t work anymore, right next to where the corners of the counters meet. He deposits the gun back into his holster and rips out open the drawer just a few inches away.

It’s that kitchen knife again.

In a dangerous voice, he growls, “We can do this all day.” He takes a deep breath and sighs as if mimicking a disappointed parent. “Since you don’t seem to be learning from the _gun_ , we can do this the hard way.

In one swift movement, with incredible ease, Carver shoves Clementine against the counter with a great force that catches her off guard. It’s the force of her temple clattering against the edge that causes her to emit the unholy screech that comes out high pitched and violently.

Her vision clatters around, going dark for a few seconds before it clears again. Terrified, she shakily looks up at him from her position in the corner, feeling her entire body tremble.

There’s a few, unrelenting seconds between the time when Clementine finds herself on her backside in the corner, panting and nursing her temple, and the moment that Carver squats down to meet her gaze.

“We can do this shit all day.” he whispers again, shaking his head slowly.

There’s a pause as Carver holds the knife at his side. Then without warning, he brandishes it again, this time lower.

Much lower.

Clementine screams when he jerks her body at the same time he forces his hand and the knife towards her abdomen, holding her tiny wrists with the other hand. Crying out again, she tries to pull herself away – she _tries_.

He rips up both of her shirts and thrusts the tip into her abdomen with just enough force to cause pain without fully breaking the sensitive skin.

With little movement, he forces the blade down so that it’s flat. All that fills her head is the _pain_ and the _burning_ when he begins to push harder - and when he pushes harder, that’s when the skin begins to break, and the bloodshed starts; first, in tiny beads, and then it begins to seep together to form a slow drip of sorts.

Clementine pushes herself against the counters, forcing herself down into the corner as she breaks Carver’s grasp from her arms. Her hands fly to her wound – it’s _burning_. It’s nearly the worst she’s ever felt because not even the dog bite hurt like this – maybe it matches the way stitching it up herself felt like, but she can’t push past it.

Tears spill down her cheeks, but she bites back the scream of pain that she doesn’t even seem to have the energy to force out, no matter how much she can feel the steady stream of blood spreading around the bottom long-sleeved shirt.

Carver bares down on her with a glare. Maybe it’s annoyance at what an _inconvenience_ she’s being, but Clementine doesn’t care. All she does is try and fail to repress the wails that escape her small body, shaking every inch like a leaf in a rainstorm.

“Are you ready to talk now?” he asks this in the most casual voice, as if he’s just asked about the weather. He raises the knife again, then looks down at the bloodstained blade.

Clementine is unable to force her mouth to work. Beyond the steadily increasing tears are the beginnings of hyperventilating, unable to take in enough air through her whines and wails.

Trembling, she tries again to force herself to speak again. Truthfully, there’s not much for her to say. She could tell Carver that _yes_ , the people he’s looking for do live here, and they’ll be back soon… she could tell him she doesn’t know.

That’s what the group thought - that she was _helping_ Carver, a man who she didn’t even _know_.

And either way, she knows, deep inside, he’s going to make it even worse. No matter what she answers, it’s like being between a rock and a hard place – there’s _no_ way this can get better, and everywhere she turns is another path to an even worse option.

He keeps her contained in the corner of the two connecting counters.

“Ain’t ready to talk yet?” Carver nods to himself, as if answering his own question. And he’s more than correct. “Well, I’ve given you enough chances by now, but… here’s what we’re gonna do,” He sighs, relaxing in his position, then pulls Clementine’s chin up, forcing her tear-filled eyes to meet his own. “I’m gonna count to three, and if you don’t tell me where Luke and Carlos are at… well, there’s gonna be _real_ consequences.”

The worst runs through her mind. He doesn’t call this a _real_ consequence? Her hands are stained in blood from the shallow, yet painful slice across her stomach. Her chest is thumping so hard that she can’t breathe, with her mind is running a mile a minute trying to figure out _what_ she can say that will save her skin without getting someone killed.

She always gets people killed.

“One.” Clementine tries to put a stop to her tears at the sound of just one word – she tries the most she can to form a coherent sentence. “Two.” She tries to yank her hands from Carver’s and looks up at him in earnest, the tears in her eyes clouding her vision.

“They’re…” Her voice falters for a moment, “Th-they’re ou-out…” Taking the deepest breath she can muster, Clementine bites her lip as hard as she can. “Th-they went t-to look for… for _Nick._ ”

For a moment, it’s as if he’s going to stop. Like he’s going to turn on his heel, walk out the door, and look for them. Almost.

“Three.”

There it is. The sound of a zipper coming down. Clementine stops; every part of her does. Every part of her aches and every part of her screams for everything to stop. Mentally, she’s screaming, because even the violent wails coming from her sore throat aren’t enough to express her emotions. She cries to Carver, wailing as his wandering hands come to her, pinning her against the sharp corner between a counter and the old refrigerator. She begs and _begs_ for him to reconsider. She repeats the same words as before – _They’re out_.

But he doesn’t let go.

“That’s fucking _disgusting_!”

The moment his fingers grip the hem of her pants, Clementine suddenly finds herself trapped on top of a puddle of her own urine. All that she originally wanted was to be brave and to get him to leave – not _this._ Another howl of humiliation and true fear escapes her, at least until Carver’s hands grab hold of her jaw again.

“ _Shut the fuck up_!”

She _cries_ and _screams_ and _begs_. And none of it works.

She feels him on every inch of her body. The pain, the humiliation – all of it. And it seems, the fear is comparable to all those months, the two years, ago when she was locked in a closet, fearing for her life and Lee’s.

It’s comparable to a day ago when she was attacked by that _stupid_ scavenger, fearing for her life, and for Christa’s.

She thinks of Christa. Anything to use as a distraction. _Anything._ And she wishes more than _anything_ that the woman would come here and save her, and when she thinks of Luke and Pete, she wishes more than _anything_ that Pete would miraculously walk through that door, alive, with Luke and the others and make everything okay again.

Just like they did yesterday.

When Carver leaves, he leaves Clementine on the floor and in the corner. He ignores her cries that turned to anguished shrieks, and he ignores the damage he did and the blood and the puddle of urine and her _anguish_ -

With a small, friendly smile, he simply says, “You have a nice day, now." And he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Clementine isn’t sure how long it is before Sarah comes downstairs, hesitant, using the empty pistol she found as her only source of protection. She can’t speak when the girl comes into the kitchen, calling her name, asking if she’s _okay –_

The pistol clatters to the floor, joining the kitchen knife.

“… Clementine?”

* * *

 

The moment he comes to the back kitchen door, Luke can sense that there’s something wrong. Not something in-particular that he can sense. Something is _wrong._

Something hangs in the air. And, he thinks, maybe it’s the voices from inside that tip him off. Without saying anything, Luke holds up a hand to the rest of the group who follow him.

Nick bites his thumbnail on one hand, increasing the grip on his rifle with the other. Alvin and Rebecca exchange glances, while Carlos’ eyes get wide. All three of them go for their weapons as well.

Every single one of them can hear the voices inside.

“ _Just go!”_ the voice belongs to Clementine, and within just that sentence, Luke can hear the breaks in her voice. “ _Just leave me alone!_ ”

“ _What did he-what did he do?_ _Clem!_ ” It’s Sarah.

Who is _he_? For just a brief moment, Luke feels panic building up in his chest, but he manages to maintain his composure in front of the others (because the moment that _he_ began to panic was the moment that Nick would panic, and that would cause Rebecca to panic. Carlos would panic regardless, even if he didn’t show it - and Alvin would remain the only sane man).

It only takes a moment for Luke to grab hold of his machete before he grips the doorknob of the back door. Then, as quickly as he can, he forces it open.

Neither girl screams when he opens the door, but Luke almost wishes that he could. His gaze is immediately drawn the corner in the kitchen, near the stove and the two connecting counters. There, in the corner, is Clementine curled into herself and simply _bawling_ ; and Sarah, just a few feet away, her hands noticeably trembling.

“Dad!” It’s Sarah who speaks first, her words dissolving into a cry for help. She shakily stands races over to Carlos and hugs him with a death grip.

“Holy… _shit_.” Luke speaks second, staring. He finds himself moving around the edge of the counter and fully taking in the area around Clementine. But he knows in the future that he’ll eventually come to regret this.

He tries to ignore it for _her_ sake and the sake of his _own_ mental health and to avoid anyone else panicking, but he’s not the only one to see their surroundings, and he’s not the only one to see that _damned steak knife with blood covering it_ or –

Her pants are bloodied and barely above her knees. Below her is a puddle of what looks to be a combination of blood and urine and the look in her eyes is _too much_ -

He wants to throw up.

And suddenly, Luke’s not the only one to process this. The others are taking it in, recovering from a temporary shock that left them speechless.

“What _happened_?” asks Carlos to Sarah, his eyes wide as dinner plates. And Sarah cries, holding on to him with the same death grip. Through her tears, they make out _Carver_ and _screaming_ and _knife_.

Carver.

As they jump into action, Clementine barely notices. Nothing is in her thoughts except that it’s too loud. Too loud to fit in her head. Too loud for _anything_.

Rebecca takes Sarah out of the room, though the older girl’s sobbing does absolutely nothing to help them. Nick and Alvin soon follow; from Luke’s point of view… well, the expression on Nick’s face is nothing short of traumatic.

“ _Clementine_ ,” Luke’s voice is quiet when he first speaks to her as he slowly rounds the counter, “Clem, you’re _safe_ now. No one’s gonna hurt you –”

In her eyes, he can tell that either she’s not listening or she’s so far gone that she simply can’t _hear_ him. The pressure in his chest increases and he glances back up at Carlos, who has a similar reaction.

“Leave me alone...” Clementine glances up from her knees when she says this, and almost immediately dissolves into tears the moment that her sentence is completed.

She gave away their position. She _gave in_. And yet, Carver _still_ …

Clementine can remember multiple times when her self-loathing, self-harming thoughts intruded when they weren’t welcome. She can remember all of the times that she wished she would just die in her sleep. This is one of those times.

They won’t leave her alone. She just wants them to leave her alone with her thoughts to die here as she should. When Clementine looks up at Luke for just a moment, The Dreaded Thoughts come back again. She wishes that Carver had killed her.

It would have been kinder on his part if he had just let the knife plunge a little bit deeper because it would have been better than he what he _really_ had in mind and what _he_ forced her to do.

Deep inside, she knows she betrayed this group.

Luke’s gaze falls to the steak knife with the spots of blood on his blade, which he hastily kicks to the side, and then tries to focus on the situation at hand. From his position, he can _clearly_ see that there’s at least some blood staining Clementine’s shirt and it’s not the same spots that they were in last night after they took her out of the shed.

“Clementine,” his mouth feels dry now. Luke exchanges glances with Carlos, then turns his gaze back towards the girl. He finds himself kneeling on the floor, about three feet in front of her. What’s he supposed to say _now_? “Clementine – come on, you gotta come outta the corner. We need to make sure you’re –”

Clementine shakes her head quickly, clenching her jaw tightly so that she can’t cry. She can’t cry. She _can’t_. And she won’t leave the corner – _no_ , she _won’t_ because this is the only safe place she can find because if she moves –

It isn’t as if she knows Luke’s group very well, either.

For just a few seconds, the hot tears running down her face are silent. She stares up at Luke through blurred vision and feels her lip tremble hard enough that there’s no way that she would be able to form a coherent sentence.

The pain in her stomach has become almost nothing compared to the pain from where Carver… from where he… She can’t even _think_ about it.

Luke has moved closer by now, and Clementine hears Carlos speak – though doesn’t make out what he says – and the squeaking of the kitchen door swinging back and forth from the force of being shoved open. And it doesn’t stop; it’s the same noise that it made when Carver shoved it open when he dragged her down. The shrill, ear-grating sound feels almost unbearable.

Clementine covers her ears.

“Clem…” Luke trails off for a moment, trying to make eye contact with Clementine. She doesn’t seem to be having it. “We’re gonna leave, okay? All of us together. We’re gonna go away from here, and this is never gon’ happen again. I _promise_ – ”

Slowly, she pans her gaze up and shakes her head.

“Look,” Luke’s breath hitches when he speaks and clenches his fingers around his knee. He tries to look up at Clementine and not at the blood or _anything_ else that she has exposed. “I know you’re scared. I _know_.” When he says this, he says it as gently and softly as he can because he _needs_ her to trust him. “But you’re hurt – and we just wanna make sure it don’t get worse.”

He knows that Clementine isn’t going to be thinking straight – _fuck,_ he’s barely thinking straight and _he_ isn’t even the hurt one in this situation. But she’s not thinking straight, and with the glazed over look in her eyes, Luke finds himself internally praying for some way to get the little girl out of this corner. He _has_ to. He could, if he wanted to, ambush her and grab her and pull her out, but Luke has the urge to slap himself when that thought crosses his mind.

“Carlos is gettin’ some medicine for ya, Clem.” Luke’s voice comes out breathy, his heart pounding as he inches his way closer to Clementine. She doesn’t seem to be taking _this_ too badly as if she doesn’t even notice that he’s gotten closer _at all_. “And then we’re gonna get cleaned up, and we’re gon’ leave, alright?”

Clementine looks up for a few seconds and then down at herself, then back up at Luke. Her eyes narrow, eyebrows knitting together, but Luke can easily tell that it isn’t in anger; it’s _grief._ The grief is starting up again, and it’s about to hit her full force.  

The door swings open and Clementine hastily covers her ears again, crying out at the sound of the rusty door hinge. It’s Carlos with a box in his arms, one that Clementine is quite sure is the old box of medical supplies that she saw him pull out last night.

“Clem,” she hears him speak quietly enough as not to alarm her, but loud enough for his voice to still be audible. “I need to make sure you’re not hurt.”

She doesn’t answer immediately and instead attempts to meet Luke’s eyes. He does the same and nods towards Carlos’ direction, then murmurs, “We’re gonna get you fixed up, okay?”

He holds his breath for just a moment before Clementine slowly nods and whispers what sounds to be a very quiet, _okay_.

Clementine hesitates, and at that moment, she suddenly feels hyper-aware of her physical situation. When she moves her legs to lean forward, she feels pain. And not the kind of pain that she would normally feel from sitting in the same position for what feels like _hours_ – it’s the kind of pain that she remembers feeling after her run-in with the scavengers; she was just so _tired_.

Luke moves close enough to Clementine that he can reach out and touch her on her shoulder. He places his hand on the back of her left shoulder and slowly begins to push her forward. Clementine flinches from the moment that she feels the pressure of Luke’s palm on her back and she stops for just a moment before she hastily begins to pull her pants back up to conserve the only _dignity_ she has left.

She stands, unsteady, like a newborn foal. It isn’t her knees that hurt, not even her thighs hurt - she knows what it is, but she can’t stand to say it. All Clementine knows is that she wants to be out of these clothes. She wants to be out of her _skin_.

“D’you have extra clothes?” Luke’s voice is low when he speaks as if he doesn’t want to embarrass her. Of course, she’s too far past that; everyone already saw the fact that she _pissed herself_ like a _small child_ and _not_ a fully capable, eleven-year-old girl. And then there’s the other circumstances. “Nick said y’found your bag -”

Slowly, she nods, and mumbles hoarsely, “... It’s upstairs.”

She has to convince herself that what Luke says is true. She would clean up and get out of her soiled and blood covered clothes, and then they would leave and never see a trace of Carver again.

When she thinks of Rebecca, Clementine answers her questions from the night before - _Whose baby is it?_ and _Why are you scared of this man?_

She knows exactly why.

Clementine follows Luke around the corner of the counter, acutely aware of the pressure and he holds on her shoulder.

Sarah can be heard from the other room, and Clementine tries to tune it out - she tries. But she what she can make out from the other girl is not what she wants to. Every single word runs through her like physical pain, so it’s no surprise that she already feels herself crying again. Sarah heard it; she heard it all. She heard the screaming and the wailing and the crying, and she saw everything that Carver exposed against Clementine’s will.  
  
When Luke guides her to the kitchen table, one hand on her shoulder and the other holding her hand, Clementine allows Carlos to clean the wound between her hip bones, though she doesn’t look down or hesitate to allow herself to cry. It just isn’t something that she can do right now - not after what happened.

Luke’s voice can be vaguely heard, but she doesn’t focus on it. Instead, Clementine finds her gaze falling on the kitchen table and the swirls in the wood. Her eyes trace them as the stinging onher skin continues.  
  
“It doesn’t need stitches,” Carlos speaks quietly, and Clementine notices his eyes flick towards the bandages on her left arm. She allows herself to breathe now; the only of relief she has is the thought that she isn’t going to have to relive last night. “It’s shallow, but I’ll put a bandage over it to control the bleeding.”

It’s less of a _bandage_ and more of a long, thick piece of gauze that Carlos places over the wound, which he holds in place with copious amounts of medical tape (“Normally, I’d use a different kind.” he tells her, “But we’re out of it. This will have to do for now.”) in order to cover the entirety of the laceration - which, Clementine finds herself realizing, is six inches long at the very least.

For just a moment, she feels the cold, smooth metal of the blade against her sensitive skin and she flinches.

“Please stay still.”

Luke moves past the kitchen table and makes eye contact with Clementine.

“I’m gonna go grab your bag, Clem. That alright?” She nods slowly, and Luke places a hand on the kitchen door, preparing to push it open. “We’re gonna leave in a few minutes.”

It’s that same phrase again - _we’re gonna leave_.

That’s all that Clementine wants to do. For as long as she lives, she never wants to see this cabin again. Or Carver.

Not ever.

“What happened?” It’s Carlos that breaks the silence after Luke leaves the kitchen; well, the silence that was previously broken by the rusty door hinge. “The lock on the front door is broken. Is that how he came in?”

She watches in silence as Carlos packs up the remaining medical supplies, and instead of answering, her mind goes back to that moment when she stood near the doorway, too terrified to move. It was that moment where Clementine realized that Carver was coming in, whether or not she liked it.

Or maybe, if she had just gone upstairs with Sarah when the older girl fled, none of this would have happened. Carver would have _gone away_.

This is entirely her fault.

Slowly, Clementine nods. She stares blankly at the patterns in the wooden table again, focusing on mentally tracing where the swirls connect and separate, and where the chips in the wood have been taken off. The table has likely seen better days.

“I’m sorry to involve you in this,” is Carlos’ response, though neither of them look at each other. “But after what Carver did to you, you’re safer here than out on your own.”

Clementine still doesn’t look up at him, and hardly acknowledges that he said anything at all.

The rusty hinges turn, the door opens again, and it physically hurts to listen to. Luke steps into the kitchen with Clementine’s purple bag hanging from his hand. She turns and reaches out to take it, and then hastily hugs it to her chest.

“Why don’t you go get changed?” Luke’s low-voiced suggestion is more of an order. “Is that all you got?”

She doesn’t answer, and instead hastily makes her way out of the kitchen and towards the downstairs bathroom, past Alvin and Rebecca and Sarah too -

Clementine tries to block them out of her vision and instead sets her sights on the door to the half-bathroom, where only a toilet and sink stay.

The door is promptly shut and locked, and Clementine allows the purple backpack to fall from her loosened fingers - they won’t hold anything. Why won’t they hold anything?

They’re numb all of a sudden, and so are her knees. So are her arms and the inside of her bony thighs -

She catches herself in the mirror. Her old ball cap is missing, though she manages to calm down slightly when she remembers that it’s in the kitchen, not lost, it’s just in the kitchen. It’s for several seconds that she finds herself staring into the mirror and examining herself because it doesn’t feel real.

Clementine brushes her pointer finger over the bruise on her temple and then drops her gaze down to the floor, where her bag fell a few moments ago.

She undresses quickly with her eyes closed and then puts on an old sweater that Christa found abandoned at a campsite three months ago; it’s slightly too big for her but it should be warm enough, and it should cover _enough_.

The mirror catches her attention again. The clean, non-bloodied pants and sweater are strangers to her small body, but they cover her nonetheless. Yet, the moment that Clementine finds herself gazing back into the mirror is the moment that she locks her eyes back on the bruise, and lower than that. She didn’t notice the marks on her neck before. Stepping closer to the sink and the mirror, Clementine brushes her fingers on the red and purple marks near her throat. For just a moment, she feels cold metal touching her jugular on one side and _someone else’s hands_ touching the other side.

Carver did this to her.

It hits her. _Carver did this_.

Clementine covered her mouth to avoid the sounds of herself crying to be heard. _Carver did this_. She isn’t dreaming. She isn’t _imagining_ this or going batshit insane. This is _real_. She isn’t going to wake up from this nightmare. Suddenly, the pain between her legs that has gone ignored for too long smacks her right in the face.

Carver _did_ this to her.

Her thoughts about that male scavenger were right; they were just placed on the wrong person. Or maybe, she thinks, they both had the same intentions. Those scavengers wanted… what? An undercooked weasel? An ornery woman with depression? A tiny, eleven-year-old girl to use for - ?

But Carver didn’t want those. He wanted information. Or, she thinks, he wanted to make her feel the pain that this entire game of keep away made him feel. Maybe. But what he did… would it make _him_ feel better?

Christa called it _rape_ once. Once was the only time they ever spoke of it.

Clementine finds herself sitting on the floor, while her numb fingers attempt to grip the nylon straps of her backpack. Her eyes trace the texture of the white, somewhat moldy paint on the walls - this one resembling the wood staining on the kitchen table.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there. It isn’t until Luke opens the door with a concerned expression on his face and a sharpened bobby-pin in his hand that Clementine comes back to the present - to the issues at hand.

Wordlessly, she follows him, her backpack slung across her back with one hand holding her own strap and the other holding the nylon on Luke’s bag as she follows him and the rest of the group to the back of the cabin.

She tries not to cry when her mind hyper-focuses on the kitchen door’s rusty hinge and that horrific noise that it makes and instead grabs her cap from the floor. With that, they leave. Each one of them leaves something different, but Clementine can’t bring herself to care.


End file.
